


what lies in letters we write

by endlessnepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Baker Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cuddling Castiel/Dean Winchester, Declarations Of Love, Familiar Dean, Feelings, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, I still can't get over that being a legit tag lol, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Sleepy Cuddles, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Witch Castiel, how to flirt 101 by Dean Winchester: give em pie, rated T because Dean says a bad word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23895823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: He’s heard a lot about the little nameless shop and its mysterious owner, but he’s never had any reason to visit. After all, it’s a shop for witches, and Dean is a familiar.When Dean gives in and goes to the shop for the first time, a scrawled list of ingredients he’s (reluctantly) picking up for Sam in his back pocket, his life of solitude — and timid hopes for a dream he’s long since accepted he won’t ever have — is turned on its head, caught in a hurricane of change.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 32
Kudos: 339





	1. serendipity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: I was going to name this fic "serendipity" but I liked wordplay a little too much LOL

_"I can't go back to yesterday because I was a different person then."_

_\- Lewis Carroll_

* * *

Dean doesn’t know if he would rather thank or curse his brother for the distraction as he pulls a clean shirt over his head and ruffles his fingers through his hair.

The idiot hadn’t even given Dean a real reason why he couldn’t go and get everything himself, dammit. But Dean had been getting a little restless after being inside all day anyway, so maybe it isn’t so bad.

Dean checks his jeans and face for any wayward puffs of flour, then grabs his phone and wallet. Shoving them into his pockets, he trots back into the kitchen to tear the list off his notepad. The page gets folded into his back pocket, and Dean snags his keys on the way out.

The late afternoon sunshine struggles to shine its light through the dense clouds, gray and heavy with the promise of rain; but the weather has already been moody for the past few days, despite the season. It’s the peak of summer and definitely shows in the stifling heat, the weak breeze just barely enough to disturb the leaves on trees. However, Dean already knows the clouds will not weep, for it is not the time. As he makes his way through the fifteen minute walk to his destination, Dean wonders when the skies will clear.

He’s heard a lot about the little nameless shop — who hasn’t, the place is somehow as well known (read: famous) as Dean’s (Dean is _very_ proud of the name he’s made for himself) — but he’s never had any reason to visit. After all, it’s a shop for witches, and Dean is a familiar. He might be a Winchester, born with the magic of the strongest bloodline of familiars in existence, but he’s never clicked with any witch he’s met, and there have been _many_ after him for his power.

Dean is strong. He doesn’t need no witch. Sure, he had been a little jealous when Sam had told him about finding Jessica by nearly bowling the poor thing over on the street. Sure, he’s a little jealous when he sees them grinning like absolute fools around each other, their magic entwined in a breathtaking harmony, two pieces of a puzzle joined to create a bigger picture together. And yeah, some days Dean will stop and wonder how it would feel to share his magic with another, to wake up in someone’s arms. But he’s made his peace with being alone, because believe it or not, a puzzle piece is still whole and complete on its own.

It’s about time to finally see the place even he’s heard countless tales of.

Perhaps Dean should have come wandering much earlier, considering the rumours floating around about the unknown owner of the shop. While there have been some rather ridiculous stories, the most agreed upon details were: the owner has eyes bluer than the summer skies and holds power greater than the deepest oceans, wild and untamed as the most ferocious beast, capable of even controlling the weather. And, while Dean has his doubts, apparently the last person who had attempted to steal from the mysterious shop owner was turned into a tree. Most people seem to think he may very well be the strongest of all Novaks in history, a line of witches more powerful than the Winchesters are as familiars. It’s all speculation, but Dean feels a small connection, an understanding, for this rather lonely person. No wonder they never show their face; even as the standing champion of _the most stubborn person in the world_ and nearly a professional at turning down people, Dean has often found it unbearable to have some many battling for his attention, all because of his name. Any sane person would rather go into hiding and never come out.

Dean reaches the end of the street, pausing on the sidewalk in front of what looked to be a neat cottage of a moderate four person family size.

_Guess this is it…?_

He knows better than to judge — Dean himself lives above his own shop, after all — but the building is just so _cozy._ It looks nothing like what he’d imagine a power centered arrogant asshole living in. Although there’s plenty being said about the magical strength of the person running this shop, Dean hasn’t heard a peep about what their character might be like, and now all his assumptions have been thrown out the metaphorical window.

How fascinating. Dean might have been a little turned away from witches because of his personal experiences, but this one…

It’s definitely a shop, complete with a cute sign hanging from the doorknob, the word _open_ scorched cleanly into the wood, and there’s no logical reason to knock. Dean finds himself stretching out a hand anyway, but as his knuckles make contact with the door, it nudges open, sliding easily on its hinges.

Dean carefully pushes the door open, entering the building to the sound of a windchime jingling cheerfully.

The space spreads out in front of his eyes, impossibly large for how quaint the outside had appeared. Shelves upon shelves of herbs and spices, amulets and spelled trinkets, stretch into the depths of the building, far enough that Dean can’t make out the back wall. Where does it all end? Above his head, the ceiling curves up high, a tall _tree_ standing in a clear area in the center of the shop, its leaves a healthy green. Adorable lamp lights curl up and over the shelves, filling the shop with a warm glow, beautiful and vibrant as sunlight. Large labels decorate the side of the shelves, declaring the aisle’s contents in a legible but distinctly messy scrawl of handwriting. Dean can see plush beanbag chairs and more solid armchairs scattered about at the end of the shelves, with what seemed to be the same idea as the seats in footwear shops. (Only not for trying on shoes, of course. There are no shoes sold here.) Every tiny detail screams hours of thought put in for the comfort of customers, and although this is not a shop Dean would usually frequent, he knows he could spend hours happily wandering the place.

But today he has a mission — and some pies to get back to baking — so Dean grabs one of the nice woven baskets and studies the shop map, pulling out the list from his pocket. He squints at his near illegible scribbles, batting away a spot of flour smeared over a few of the words.

_yarrow_

_elderberries_

~~_mugwu_~~ _mugwort_

_white sage_

_eucalyptus > just a little _

_juniper (_ _leaves_ _not berries)_

_wormwood_

_mandrake_

_witch hazel_

Dean’s not absolutely hopeless, so he does recognize a few as the more frequently used ingredients, simple ones essential to a large number of small scale spells or even as a base for more elaborate ones.

 _They’re the more common things, so— up front. Right hand side,_ Sam had said.

Good thing it’s only the beginning of the weekend and Dean can still come back tomorrow to explore. Funny how he had disliked the idea of visiting, and now he’s making plans to return the very next day.

Dean finds all the items on the list almost disappointingly easily — everything on each shelf is _alphabetized,_ Dean is simultaneously shocked speechless and in love — and makes his way to the counter near the door, barely paying any attention to all the other people milling about searching for their own purchases or simply browsing. He drops a few bills into the indigo bowl under a _pay here_ sign, curious about whether he’d receive any change. To his surprise, coins appear in the nearby tray, settled on top of letters that appear one by one, spelling out _Thank You!_ in an elegant swirling font.

Smiling, Dean picks up his change and deposits it right back into the bowl.

He definitely does _not_ leave and forget to buy some rosemary for himself. (He definitely does.)

\---

If Dean didn’t know any better, he would say the clouds didn’t look as gloomy as yesterday. As it were, even he isn’t thickheaded enough not to notice his own good mood; he hums a short repeating tune throughout the entire process of baking a fresh loaf of bread for himself and a few apple pies.

Dean’s anticipation has him strung tight as a bowstring, and he lingers in his hot shower as the pies cool in the kitchen, trying to calm himself so he doesn’t seem too eager. He dries himself quickly, shrugging on a casual long sleeved shirt and dark jeans, rolling up his sleeves to expose his forearms.

Too impatient to wait any longer, Dean packs the pies into their boxes while they’re still warm, stacking them together in one bag before heading out. He saunters around town, greeting everyone he meets, and delivers a pie to Bobby, Jo and Ellen, Charlie, Sam and Jessica. They each tease him in their own ways, wondering about what the “special occasion” must be for Dean to personally give them one of his best selling pies — he grins, giving them a vague shrug before waving goodbye and going on his way.

To no one’s surprise, Dean finds himself back at the noname little (huge) shop. For some reason, the instant he walks through the door, Dean feels like he’s finally about to breathe properly. Like a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders, like he’s finally returned _home._ He soaks in the tranquil calm and helps himself to a cup of offered coffee from the machine set up at one end of the checkout counter, meandering slowly down the shelves.

Next time he’ll try the daily tea, he tells himself, even though he hates tea. The coffee is wonderful, rich with a complex flavour Dean could never hope to get from the cheap stuff he halfheartedly brews at home to wake himself up in the mornings, so maybe even the tea will be good enough to have Dean enjoy drinking boiled leaf juice.

God, he’s already ruined for other coffees, and he hasn’t even met the person brewing it.

Dean ends up grabbing one of the dark woven bracelets spelled with a nifty charm encouraging restful sleep at night, along with a handful of dried herbs he could use in cooking. He sets the basket on what he now notices is an elevated hardwood floor in the shop — it must be all soil underneath, that solves the mystery of a massive live plant growing indoors — and plops down to rest his back against the trunk of the tree. There are quite a few customers, not a surprise when this shop is the only one supplying specific items necessary for spellwork, but the noise level is comfortably low.

Exhaling the tension from his shoulders, Dean takes another sip of coffee. He watches a familiar scurry back to her witch with a bundle of lavender, and wonders if it was time he tried introducing a new pastry to the variety he has at the shop. Dean pulls out the pen and notepad he always carries, biting idly at his lip as he jots down ideas.

When Dean eventually forces himself to go home, two cups of coffee later, he leaves the last box of pie on the counter with a note.

\---

“Anddd that’s it for today.”

Dean flips the sign on the inside of the front door to _closed,_ double locking the front door and pulling the blinds shut over the large glass windows. Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair, the other tugging at the loose knot of his apron.

The past few days have been busier than ever, and while Dean is pleased with all the extra people walking through his door to buy baked goods, he’s exhausted. Only now does he let his practiced smile drop as he stretches out the sore muscles of his back and legs from a long day of standing, digging his fingers into tense areas with feeble hopes of relief.

And the reason for this sudden influx of customers? The weather.

Ever since the weekend, the stormy clouds have disappeared from the skies, leaving behind an endless expanse of bright baby blue and a relentlessly glowing sun. summer is back in all of its blinding sunlit glory, bringing with it Dean’s instinctive desire to wag his tail and go out for a walk. He’d been holding back for the past week or so because he hated smelling like wet dog — and the mournful atmosphere outside hasn’t been entirely motivating, either — but now he wants to run with the birds flying over his head until his legs give out.

It’s times like this when Dean is extremely grateful for his detached home, shut in neighbours, and the sizable forest behind his street, beginning right beyond the fence of his backyard. Nobody really goes into the forest beyond the few people walking their dogs or jogging at set intervals throughout the day, and the foliage is dense enough to hide even adults if they huddle down low enough. The only downfalls are the swarms of insects and masses of chittering squirrels, but they’re only minor nuisances and it’s rather easy to coexist, as long as there is no unwarranted hostility.

Dean checks his pockets for his phone before he slips out the back door of his house, locking it behind him and clipping his keys onto a belt loop before vaulting over his fence. He strides confidently into the forest, ducking behind a massive bush to crouch down in the plant life. The shift only takes half a second, and Dean tips his nose into the air to make sure not a single person is around, quietly sneaking away from the bush until he deems it safe and far enough. Then, he straightens up and trots merrily through the forest, slowly gaining speed until he’s dashing over fallen trunks, paws barely touching the ground to propel him forward.

He runs and runs and runs, panting into the headwind with an open mouth. Plants and dirt give way to pavement, and Dean continues racing down the streets until his lungs are struggling to pull in enough air against his heaving exhales. Only then does he allow himself to walk, tongue lolling out of his mouth and tail swishing lazily through the air.

Before he could realize where his legs have brought him, Dean’s padding up to the door of the only magic shop he knows. It’s far too late to turn around without being suspicious, so he faithfully plays the part of curious dog and sniffs about before pushing his nose against the door; it swings open with the barest whisper of a sound, welcoming Dean in.

As he’s already learned to expect from his previous two visits, the place immediately puts Dean at ease, even with his more anxious and skittish instincts of a dog. The lights indoors have dimmed into something softer, as if mimicking the fading light of the setting sun outside.

Dean roams down the aisles, deftly avoiding any people. He drifts around the shop, exploring in a new perspective, appreciative of the subtle scents he could never pick up with a human nose. Once the adrenaline from his run settles, Dean heads for the tree, turns a few circles next to it, and curls up, head on his paws.

He rests, eyes closed, for a stretch of time he doesn’t care enough to track. No one approaches him, though Dean does catch wind of a few conversations discussing how pretty his fur is and if he might be someone’s familiar— some even debate the idea of him being a dog belonging to the unidentified shop owner, watching over the shop. Dean pays no heed to the gossip, content to float aimlessly along the peaceful waters of relaxation.

Just before he could fall asleep, Dean yawns, getting to his feet and shaking himself from head to toe. His tail waves his pleased satisfaction the whole way back.

That night, Dean dreams of dozing off under the tree, colourful song birds chirping their exuberant songs as they dart between the green leaves.

\---

The weekend rolls around again.

Dean makes the — if he were to be totally honest, frankly quite brilliant — decision to buy herbs from the shop instead of the grocery store he frequents each week.

When he leaves, it’s with some dried basil and a folded note addressed to him, the handwriting a perfect match with all the signs in the shop. Dean absolutely does not end up cutting a fifteen minute walk down to just nine in his rush to read the note in the privacy of his home.

_Dean,_

_I would like to express my immense gratitude for your kindness and generosity. The pie is absolutely phenomenal — a slice of heaven, indeed. As for the weather, please accept my apologies for such an embarrassing lack of control on my part. I am feeling much better now._

_C_

\---

_Dude (or lady?) don’t worry about it, I’m glad you’re doing okay! Your place is awesome, I definitely should’ve dropped by earlier._

_If you don’t mind, try this and tell me what you think? :)_

_Hope I’m not being annoying_

_Dean_

\---

_Thank you, Dean. I hope you are also doing well._

_I’m afraid I do not know much about baked goods, as it tastes perfectly fine to me. However, I have a feeling you would not be satisfied with such an answer; if I must seek out the smallest and most irrelevant point born from personal preference, I would like to suggest the possibility of perhaps adding a little honey to counterbalance the tartness of the lemon. It is a wonderful loaf of bread, and I will savour every last crumb._

_I must assure you, I have enjoyed this exchange thus far._

_C_

_P.S. I am most certainly a dude._

\---

_I’m doing fantastic, now that I’ve got my very own taste tester…?_

_Tweaked the recipe a bit! Made you a plain one as well so you don’t get too tired of lemon all the time… I promise no more bread next week. Do you have any requests?_

_Aw, you sure know how to make a guy blush_

_let me know if I get annoying and I’ll stop, okay?_

_Dean_

\---

_The modification is perfect. You are very skilled at making bread. :) Anything you create must be delicious, I’m sure._

_Are you trying to win my heart through my stomach, Dean?_

_C_

\---

_You flatter me too much, buddy. Got you some standard choco chip cookies and a few croissants — these things sell so quickly all the time for some reason_

_Is it working?_

_Dean_

\---

A gentle hand stroking down his back startles Dean awake; he raises his head, blinking blearily at the figure crouched next to him.

Doesn’t this idiot know to let sleeping dogs lie?

Evidently not.

But instead of snapping at the idiot’s fingers, Dean’s far more preoccupied with mentally cursing up a storm, because even with his horrible dog vision, he can see hints of how beautiful the man is: a sharp jawline, tousled dark hair, broad shoulders, deep blue eyes. Dean inhales, and is met with the distinct note of wood, muted like the scent of a forest buried under fresh snow in winter, made sweeter by the subtle fragrance of honeyed lemons. It’s at once wild and soft and Dean wants to roll around in it.

To make matters even worse, the man opens his mouth and starts speaking with a voice of pure sin, rough as gravel and rich as the darkest decadent chocolate.

“Hello. I really didn’t want to disturb you, but I need to close up and I don’t want to accidentally lock you in here.”

Lost in the depths — they would probably be even more stunning with Dean’s human eyesight — of blue eyes, it takes a moment for the words to find their way to Dean’s brain. He scrambles up into a sitting position and tips his head to one side, ridiculously disappointed when the elegant fingers cease their petting.

“I’ve noticed an animal presence coming and going rather frequently these past few weeks— A pleasure to finally meet you, I’m glad you seem to be enjoying your time here.”

_Does he know I’m a familiar?_

The man smiles. Dean barks quietly in return.

“You should head home,” the man says, standing.

Dean doesn’t move, tail swishing idly over the hardwood floor.

“Um.” The man takes a few steps back, nervously patting a thigh. “Come?”

 _Ah. He’s just one of_ those _people._

If Dean could, he would laugh; _of course_ this absurdly polite man would be the kind of person to hold proper conversations with animals who cannot understand or reply. Had it been any other person, such a thing would be hilariously foolish, but Dean finds himself outrageously endeared by the openhearted clumsiness of this man.

“Please?” The man gasps and grins, delighted, when Dean gets to his feet. “That’s it! Come here, please?”

So Dean goes, wagging his tail happily when he gets gentle scratches behind the ears for his troubles. (Not that it was troublesome for him, anyway.)

The man walks slowly, as if unwilling to cut their time short. Obedient, Dean follows at his side, sitting down in front of the door.

“Must I open the door for you as well? Someone’s been spoiling you,” the man says even as he moves to do exactly that, but Dean catches the subdued loneliness in his tone.

With a sharp bark, Dean butts his head against the man’s leg. He receives a short helpless sort of laugh and raises a paw to bat insistently against the leg until the laugh melts into something closer to joy.

“Alright, okay.” The man squats down, resting Dean’s outstretched paw on his open palm. “I must be really obvious— but don’t worry, I’ve got a nice person looking after me too.” He drops Dean’s paw to tap Dean’s nose with the pad of a finger. “Go on.”

Dean’s scrubbing at his hair in the shower when he realizes the kind man he’d met for the first time today, has to be none other than _C._

\---

_I am merely sharing an observation of mine :)_ ~~_I would offer payment for your delightful culinary creations, but_~~ _Please accept this succulent as a small token of my appreciation. Aloe vera can be useful in many ways, and will not require extensive care._

_It would be a lie if I said it wasn’t. (just a little)_

_C_

\---

_Buddy, if you dare attempt paying me for my crappy experiments, I’m gonna get real angry. And I’m no gold star plant person but I promise I’ll try my best to keep it alive…_

_;)_ ~~_(sorry)_ ~~

_Dean_

\---

_Alas! I shall drown in the shallow waters of my shame, trembling in fear at the thought of inciting your wrath._

_I do hope your first plant is doing well? Aloe should flourish easily with some sunlight._

_On a separate note, the key lime muffins were sublime — I do believe they will be well received by the public. Truly extraordinary, how easily you blow all my expectations completely out of the water with each passing week._

_C_

\---

_Alright, alright, laugh it up big boy. See if I give you any more pie._

_Plant report (I’ll have you know it’s not my first, I do have grass in my backyard): the thing’s growing_ _fast_ _as hell. Been getting some compliments, thanks for that._

_Awesome, I’ll add it to my muffin rotation… Wonders never cease, you do know how to crack a joke :)_

_Hey, don’t underestimate my skills, I can be a little smart on a good day. And what can I say, I’ve been inspired recently_

_Dean_

\---

Summer recedes, giving way to autumn and its chilly winds. Although the cold doesn’t bother Dean — he runs warm all the time — in the slightest, it does rouse a seasonal melancholic drowsiness, a sort of lingering inclination towards hunkering down somewhere warm and snoozing until spring returns. Dean would use it as his excuse (along with just how easily this place had him letting down his guard) for being so careless, but he knows a part of the blame, no matter how small, still lies with himself, when he wakes in a circle of golden fire.

There’s a stranger standing in front of Dean, and the realization of being held as a hostage hits Dean like a freight train.

But who is he being used against? And in front of all the customers, no less?

“You come into my home, threaten an innocent life to force me into compliance, and you’re telling me—” Dean hears the man behind him take a step forward, voice sinking into a deep growl. “—you aren’t trying to provoke conflict?”

 _Oh._ If the blue eyed man is here, then Dean must have slept through the shop’s business hours again. That would explain the lack of spectators. He jumps to his feet, snarling and baring his teeth at the newcomer. _Leave him alone, jackass!_

“Hush, pup,” the stranger croons, a saccharine imitation of kindness. He twists his fingers in a careless gesture and cold magic strips Dean of his voice, leaving him glaring silently in hatred. “Such a loyal pet— Would it die for you, Castiel?”

“Mind your boundaries, brother. My strength might have been inferior in the past, but if you dare harm my friend, I will not hesitate to show you just how much I’ve grown.”

Dean twists carefully in the little space he has, rearing up on his hind paws to leap and transform in midair, clearing the flames easily with human legs. He lands next to the man he’s befriended in the past few months — he’s right, those eyes are devastatingly blue with sight not limited to just a few colours — through letters and as a dog, pivoting smoothly to face off against the intruder. 

“Hear that,” Dean growls, glad he could hear his own voice once again, “leave Cas alone, jackass.”

Now empty, the ring of fire extinguishes, scattering into golden sparks before disappearing. The man tips his head to one side, narrowing his eyes.

“Hm. A familiar… And you are?”

“Nobody important.” Dean casually clasps Castiel’s hand, squeezing gently when he startles at the contact. “Just a guy who’s gonna help your bro kick your ass.”

Magic hums its deadly song as Castiel’s eyes ignite an icy electric blue, Dean’s own glowing a vibrant emerald green as they stretch the wings of their combined power in a threatening display. It feels so _right,_ mixing blue and green like the sky meeting the grass on the horizon, and Dean absently wonders if this was how Sam and Jessica felt when they shared their magic for the first time.

“Leave, Michael,” Castiel thunders. “If you insist on trespassing in my home again, I will not be quite so forgiving.”

Michael stumbles backward, pointing with a shaking finger. “Why— How are you so powerful?”

“Ever heard of the Winchesters?” Dean grins, sharp and predatory. “I suggest never coming back.”

Eyes wide, Michael turns tail and beats a hasty retreat, the windchime above the door cheerfully announcing his departure to an audience of two.

Castiel breathes a relieved sigh, shoulders slumping.

Dean immediately releases Castiel’s hand and steps away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. I’m gonna… go.”

“Wait— Dean!” Castiel has a folded piece of paper clutched between his thumb and index finger. He slowly extends his hand, holding it out.

Dean glances at Castiel. Then the paper. Back to Castiel.

Castiel nods, a tiny dip of his head.

Dean takes the few steps back to Castiel. Gingerly, he accepts the offering.

With one last awkward nod, Dean leaves.

\---

_Dean,_

_Admittedly, I haven’t been entirely honest with you. As someone who has been pursued time and time again for my name and avoided any contact with others as a result, it has taken me far too long to realize how disrespectful and selfish I have been by acting as I have. Having anyone approach someone like me for anything beyond my power was unheard of — not to mention someone as kind and charming as you are — and I foolishly held onto the hope that as long as you didn’t know about me, everything would be fine._

~~_I can’t do it anymore. It’s been unbearable, lying to you._ ~~

_I’m sorry, Dean. I won’t ask you to forgive me._

_Castiel Novak_

\---

Dean reads the letter the instant he gets home, his frown deepening with each word.

He reads it so many times, he could probably recite it from memory.

Dean stays up as late as he dares — it’s still a workday tomorrow, no matter how much he wishes otherwise — before dragging himself to bed, stewing in his thoughts and hoping to reach a satisfactory conclusion. (He doesn’t.)

He falls asleep that night imagining Castiel with his eyes downcast, miserable and defeated as he whispers _I won’t ask you to forgive me._

\---

In the morning, as he’s baking all the pastries and breads and pies for the day, Dean realizes he’s been so busy thinking about Castiel’s letter, he’d forgotten to write his reply.

 _What an idiot,_ Dean thinks. He doesn’t know who he’s referring to, himself or Castiel.

Maybe it’s both of them.

Between bites of his lunch in the late afternoon, Dean stares down at the empty page of his notepad, brows creased in thought as he twirls his pen.

The page remains blank under the counter as Dean works hard attending to the last of the afternoon rush, mostly parents and teenagers buying dessert for their dinners or breads and pastries for breakfast the next day.

By the time his work day is over, Dean’s tired and frustrated with his own unwritten words. But as he’s mopping down all the floors, his brain spits out a half formed idea, and Dean jumps aboard the tiny raft with all his enthusiasm.

It isn’t a bad plan.

So Dean gets to work baking a cherry pie, taking an anxious shower and changing his clothes as he waits.

The sun is starting to set as Dean makes the walk over to Castiel’s shop, warm pie in a bag hanging from the bend of his elbow. If his calculations are correct, he’ll have to wait less than a handful of hours. It’s a good thing he loves the coffee there.

Time crawls, infuriatingly slow. A watched pot doesn’t boil, so Dean starts tearing pages from his notepad into squares, meticulously folding neat paper cranes; he gets a few curious glances from shoppers walking by, but none of them stop to ask and the number of people wandering about dwindle as the pile at Dean’s feet steadily grows.

“...Dean?”

Tossing his unfinished paper crane into the pile, Dean stands. “Cas.”

“What are you doing? Today’s not— You don’t usually—”

“Yeah. Came to see you.” Dean hands Castiel the note he had quickly scrawled before leaving his house, watching as Castiel unfolds it and reads the one line.

_You don’t have to ask._

“For me to forgive you,” Dean clarifies.

Castiel’s eyes go wide; encouraged by the reaction, Dean steps closer.

“There’s nothing to forgive. Your family name couldn’t matter less to me.”

“But—”

“I’m a Winchester, y’know? I don’t care about how much magic you have, how many people know your name.” Dean looks away from the growing amazement in Castiel’s eyes, picking at his nails for a moment. “I care that you’re a weird, dorky little guy who talks — and writes — stupid formal, usin’ all those big words like you’re some walking dictionary. I care that you’re an idiot who changes the weather just because some guy you don’t even know gave you a pie and politely asked for some sunshine, if you’d please. I care that you’re an awkward dude who is ridiculously thoughtful and has the weirdest sense of humour out of all the people I’ve ever met— I care that you’re _you,_ and you’re more important than a last name.”

Castiel blinks, seemingly stunned speechless.

Dean groans. He can already feel the warmth blooming across his cheeks and tips of his ears. “You could’ve stopped my dumb ass at any time, preferably before I started that stupid chick flick speech— Okay, I’m gonna, I should shut up now—”

“Dean…” Castiel sounds breathless, and Dean’s own breath catches in his chest. “Can I kiss you?”

“Um.” Dean worries at his bottom lip with his teeth; Castiel tracks the movement with his eyes like he’s unable to look away. “Yeah— I mean, if you want—”

Castiel’s already moving, closing the half step of space between them and bringing a hand up to cradle Dean’s face as he presses their lips together. It’s gentle and sweet and better than everything Dean imagined kissing Castiel would be.

As quickly as it had started, it’s over. Castiel pulls back, waiting for Dean’s reaction with restless, worried eyes, as if he wasn’t the hurricane that had swept Dean soundly off his feet in one fell swoop.

 _Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore._ Dean nearly laughs at the thought.

No doubt concerned by Dean’s thoughtful silence, Castiel’s just about physically vibrating with his anxiety. “Was— Was that okay,” he blurts, cheeks flushed a soft pink.

 _What an idiot._ Dean does laugh at the thought this time, a short chuckle that spills low and fond from deep within his chest. “Perfect.”

Castiel goes easily when Dean tugs him closer to press their smiling lips together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bad news, my dumb brain has gotten stubbornly attached to this Cas + Dean AU and won't think about anything else, so we're going to have 3 timestamps of these adorable fools in love!
> 
> (if y'all didn't catch it, Dean's place is called Slice of Heaven :'))) whew it's been a while since I've written anything this long lol)


	2. [timestamp #1] storm clouds, they live in my heart, in my mind

_Dean takes one look out the window and all his plans for the evening slip through his fingers faster than sand._

_Each step is heavy, dragging at his limbs like he’s wading through chest high water. Even so, Dean hauls himself forward._

_Giving up is not an option._

_He feels like a complete loon, rain pelting his umbrella in fat droplets as he knocks on a locked door that may not grant him entry._

_“Cas?”_

Castiel lets Dean in. He even sends a tiny trickle of his magic — in the form of a glowing blue bunting — to Dean as a guide, because not a single person (besides Castiel himself) knows where his living quarters are.

And he knows he should probably go to Dean instead of forcing him to make the quest alone, or even get up to greet him.

But Castiel has no inclination towards moving. He’d been apathetic for most of the afternoon, making halfhearted attempts at enjoying his usual pastimes before giving up. The most Castiel had gotten himself to do was assemble something like a nest in the cushioned sunken area of his living room, collecting extra pillows and fluffy blankets of dark muted colours around one corner. Next to him sits a pile of books he’d grabbed for no real reason, hoping the photos — of art, food, plants — would provide a tolerable distraction.

Castiel hated himself for feeling the way he did. After all, he’s no longer alone — he has Dean. But only now does he understand, that the pain of having and then losing something is much greater than not having it at all. Not that he’s lost Dean. No, Dean still visits every weekend with baked goods and warm smiles, still trots into the shop with four paws and a wagging tail on random weekday nights to curl up under the tree. Castiel knows he has Dean, now more than ever. Yet his mind whispers poisonous doubts, telling him he's lost more than just letters in Dean’s handwriting, that he’s gained less than the affectionate but deliberately measured touches. He knows Dean is busy with running his shop, knows Dean is only seemingly passive because of his exhausting work hours. But long periods of time spent alone with your thoughts breeds deadly creatures, and while Castiel doesn’t doubt Dean’s affections for a second, he now finds his previous solitary lifestyle to be rather… lonely.

It isn’t Dean’s fault. And Castiel also can’t bring himself to tell him about any of it, because he knows Dean — the idiot — would gladly work himself to the bone for Castiel’s sake. If there was anything absolutely essential to the creation of the man known as Dean Winchester, it would be his altruism.

“...Cas?”

_Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear._

“Dean,” Castiel says to the open book balanced on a pillow in his lap.

Dean pads across the room, footsteps muffled by his socks. He stops at the edge of the soft pit Castiel’s sitting in, arms wrapped around his knees as he crouches down. “Cas? You okay?”

“Fine.” Castiel regrets his tone the instant the word leaves his mouth. A bitter part of him thinks _good._ It’s what he deserves, if Dean gets angry and decides to leave.

But Dean doesn’t. Instead, Dean — wonderful, lovely Dean — only hums a soft sound and murmurs, “Okay. Can I join you?”

Castiel ducks his head in a sharp, jerky nod, repeating the action when Dean pauses in the act of reaching for a book.

Spiteful in a wickedly childish way, Castiel forces himself to focus on his book, ignoring Dean. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to get Dean irritated, or if he’s trying to spare Dean from anything unkind he might say in the heat of the moment.

The once tedious motion of dragging his eyes across the page to read the neatly printed words gradually becomes less of a chore and Castiel starts turning pages in earnest, reading with increasing enthusiasm and interest as time passes. He genuinely forgets about Dean by the time he’s a few dozen pages into the book, too absorbed to notice anything about his surroundings. Castiel reads about the lives of well known artists from the past, hungrily devouring the images of their art.

What could very well be hours later, Castiel turns the last page and abruptly recalls seeing Dean. He remembers Dean asking if he was okay, remembers — with a pang of guilt — snapping a monosyllabic response. But Dean didn’t leave; no, he had sat at Castiel’s feet to read a book, borrowed from the stack next to Castiel.

He doesn’t know if Dean had chosen the floor because he wanted to remain unobtrusive while Castiel was acting prickly and unpleasant or if he simply prefered it, but even if the floor is cushioned as well as the plush bench like seating that stretched around the whole perimeter of the space, Castiel simply couldn’t accept allowing Dean to stay on the floor at his feet like a dog.

Closing his book, Castiel looks up with the intention of finding Dean, but the space around him is empty. Confused and a little worried, Castiel stands, turning in place to scan every corner of the room.

Maybe Dean had gone back home.

Castiel’s shoulders slump. Maybe. It’s probably late, and Dean has work tomorrow.

He has no right to be disappointed. Not when he’d been acting like that.

Castiel sighs. He’ll have to apologize to Dean next time, then. Whenever that happens to be.

It’s pure chance — a lucky coincidence — when Castiel glances down just slightly before he goes to check his bathrooms, just in case Dean is there. But Dean won’t be in any of the bathrooms, because he’s right there, sprawled on the cushioned floor.

And Castiel’s heart stutters over a panicked beat because Dean’s lying there, unmoving. He stumbles over and falls to his knees next to Dean’s prone form, his heart a frightened bird beating at the bars of its cage.

Castiel rocks back on his heels in relief when he sees Dean’s chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep, steady breaths occasionally hitching gently with the softest of snores.

_Jesus. What is he doing, sulking by himself when Dean went out of his way to see him?_

Dean sighs and mumbles something nonsensical in his sleep, shifting restlessly before settling again. Only now does Castiel spot the thin, infinitesimal cloud of flour dusting the very tips of Dean’s hair, and he wants to cry.

He wants to cry, and hold Dean, tell him just how much he deserves to be loved and appreciated. He wants to kiss every inch of Dean, worship every part of him, press love into his skin until he’s bursting with it. He wants to wake up every morning with Dean in his bed, laugh with him over silly things as they share meals, give him the whole world just to see him smile. He wants and he wants and he wants, but Dean is the glowing sun and he is a mere sunflower, destined only to chase after those golden rays.

Castiel bundles the comforters and pillows from his bed into his arms, quietly sneaking back to the living room. It feels so strange knowing Dean is asleep in his home, trusting Castiel to keep him safe while he’s vulnerable. And Castiel knows, being able to go to sleep in a totally foreign location is no easy feat.

It warms something in him, the idea of having Dean’s trust. Castiel carefully shakes out one of his dark navy comforters, tucking it up around Dean’s shoulders. He worries for a minute, twisting his fingers together in his lap as he weighs the pros and cons, but seeing Dean with his shoulder wedged under him in what must be an uncomfortable position seals the deal.

Heart in his throat, Castiel cautiously eases his hand under Dean’s cheek; he shuts his mouth on a yelp so quickly his teeth click when Dean exhales a sleepy hum and nuzzles into Castiel’s palm.

It takes Castiel’s frozen brain a long moment to reboot and come back online.

When he finally remembers his plan, Castiel pats around for the pillow he’d left nearby, slowly lifting Dean’s head enough to slide it under. Selfishly, Castiel allows himself to brush the pad of his thumb over the freckles scattered across Dean’s cheekbone, fingers sliding through Dean’s hair in a lingering touch as Castiel withdraws his hand.

After placing the hardcover book of herbs Dean had been reading on the elevated seating area — just to make sure Dean couldn’t accidentally roll over onto it in his sleep — and fussing with the placement of all the pillows around them, Castiel throws the other comforter over himself. He curls up next to Dean, leaving a reasonable sized gap to account for any possible sleep movements, fluffs his pillow once, and goes to sleep hoping Dean wouldn’t be too disoriented waking up in the morning.

There’s a covered plate of toast and scrambled eggs sitting on Castiel’s marbled kitchen island when he wakes, cooling but not completely cold just yet. The mug of coffee next to it is still blissfully warm and Castiel cradles it in his hands, unable to hold back his drowsy smile as he inhales the rich scent. Standing a little ways from the ensemble is a folded sheet of paper bearing the word _Cas._

Sipping at his coffee, Castiel unfolds the note.

_Morning, Sunshine :)_

_Thanks for letting me crash here, hope you don’t mind me borrowing your kitchen to make breakfast. Sorry I had to leave without telling you, it was early and you looked like you needed the sleep._

_You ever need me, I'm here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I’ll try to drop by more often — by the way, your coffee is awesome (did I tell you that already… can’t remember right now)_

_I didn’t do anything except knock out, but_

_I hope you’re feeling better, Cas._

_Dean_

Although he’s disappointed he couldn’t witness just-rolled-out-of-bed Dean puttering around in his kitchen, Castiel's positive he wouldn’t be able to go back to his usual mornings once he’s had one with Dean; just imagining Dean saying _morning, sunshine_ in a voice thick with sleep is enough to send shivers down his spine.

And maybe he’ll have that, someday.

Not today.

Not yet.

But someday.

And when that day comes, Castiel knows his storm clouds will be blown away by the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha I only had 4.5 hours of sleep this morning and my clown brain immediately decided I needed to write
> 
> idk why but I really like the idea of conversation pits in homes


	3. [timestamp #2] sorry, we're closed

The door opens, its hinge protesting — as usual — against the movement with a low squeak. He would fix it, but it’s been a decent indicator of customers entering the shop, so he’s been leaving the thing be.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” Dean calls from where he’s wiping down the stainless steel tables behind the counter.

He swears he actually remembered to flip the sign to _closed_ this time. Did he forget again? Maybe he should start locking the door first, instead of cleaning.

The door hasn’t made a sound, so whoever came in? Hasn’t left like they should.

Dean mercilessly curb stomps the spark of his irritation into oblivion, pasting a polite smile on his face before turning around.

“Would you like to place an order—” He blinks. The person he thinks is standing there, is still standing there. “Cas?”

Castiel smiles. He looks carelessly casual standing there, with a dark jacket stretching over his broad shoulders and tight jeans clinging desperately to the strong swell of his thighs, like he isn’t stealing all the air from Dean’s lungs. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s automatically responding before he even realizes what he’s saying. “Hey, Ca—” He shakes his head. “No, wait— What are you doing here? I mean, not that I’m not happy to see you—”

Castiel laughs. “Well, I figured it wasn’t fair that you’ve seen my place a thousand times and I have yet to see yours.”

_Oh. That’s right, he’d been meaning to invite Cas over for quite some time now._

“Oh.”

“I thought we could…” Castiel fidgets, almost hesitant. “Make dinner. Together.”

“Yeah! Sounds awesome,” Dean says, and Castiel brightens. “But, uh— My brother and his fiancée are gonna tag along, s’that okay?”

Castiel’s face falls. He takes a small step back. “Oh. Did I— I picked a bad time to ask, didn’t I—”

“No!”

Castiel startles at Dean’s outburst, eyes round.

“No,” Dean repeats, stern. “There is never a bad time to ask, you understand? Just so happens that Sammy sprung the family meeting on me this morning. Nothin’ major; nobody’s gonna be mad if I reschedule.”

“I couldn’t…”

“Hey. S’all up to you, yeah? I’m okay with whatever you want, so if you aren’t comfortable with unexpected guests, then we won’t have any.” _Like hell I’d tell you no, idiot._

Castiel blinks, biting gently at his bottom lip as he considers. “...Okay.” He squares his shoulders like a man preparing to go to war, determined. “I do need to meet them, anyway.”

Dean chuckles. “Relax, Cas. They’ve been wanting to meet you for ages, they’ll play nice.” He nudges open the barrier he had installed to prevent customers from wandering behind the counter. “Get over here, I’ve been wanting to kiss you since you walked in.”

\---

“I’ll get it.”

“Mm, okay.” Dean grabs the bowl of potatoes Castiel had chopped, spreading the wedges on a baking tray. He drizzles them with olive oil, liberally scattering his own blend of spices. A bit of salt, and then they go into the oven—

An explosive bark echoes from downstairs, loud and aggressive as a gunshot. Dean nearly catches his own fingers as he hastily shoves the oven door closed, only managing to hit the button starting the timer out of pure ingrained habit before he’s dashing down the stairs. He nearly brains himself tripping over thin air on the middle landing, where the steps take a sharp 90 degree turn, palms stinging where they made contact with the wall.

“Alright, break it up,” Dean calls as he stumbles down the last two steps.

Castiel glances up with wild eyes, hands sunk deep in the thick fur around the neck of the massive dog pinning him to the floor.

_Dammit, Sammy._

Dean huffs — the flight of stairs is short and not even close enough to have him winded, but the idea of Castiel in danger punches all the air from his chest — and drags half a breath into his lungs to snap, “Enough!”

Sam continues growling, low and guttural, leaning his weight forward on the paw planted in the center of Castiel’s chest.

“I said—” Dean jogs forward, changing forms midstep to barrel into Sam with his whole weight, rolling him off Castiel to sprawl onto the floor in a heap. He squeezes his jaw closed around the back of Sam’s neck, pressing until Sam goes limp, whining a high sound of surrender. His point made, Dean immediately releases Sam, sitting back on his haunches and returning to human form to finish his sentence. “—that’s enough.”

Castiel coughs, pressing a hand to his chest as he props himself up on an elbow.

“Cas!” Dean’s instantly at his side, helping him sit up. He cradles Castiel’s face in his hands, tilting it up to check his neck. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine—”

Dean growls, pulling Castiel’s hand from his chest to poke around the area, gently exploring.

“Dean—” Castiel weakly protests, patiently sitting still as Dean insistently checks him over. “I’m fine. Just got the breath knocked out of me.”

“I wasn’t going to bite him, Dean!” Sam winces, holding his hands up when Dean whirls around with a glare. “Sorry.”

“Dean, it’s alright.” Castiel shifts to rest some of his weight against Dean; comforted by the gesture in a way he can’t explain, Dean settles an arm around Castiel’s middle. “Sam, I presume?”

“Um— Yeah. Sorry for…” Sam grimaces. “All that. Dean’s the only one that’s ever here, my brain just— Assumed the worst, I guess.”

Dean hooks his chin over Castiel’s shoulder. “Definitely doesn’t help when you have a dog’s mostly one track mind.” He’s less agitated now, soothed by Castiel’s unwavering calm. “What’d you rush here for?”

“Oh, I’m supposed to tell you Jess is coming later— We all know how you get when we’re not here, even though you never let us help you cook.”

Castiel chuckles and Sam grins, ridiculously pleased to have someone on his side for teasing Dean. Now more than ever, Dean appreciates the way Jessica laughs and declares she’s not getting involved.

“You guys bring most of the meat, I gotta do something,” Dean mutters. “And I don’t _get_ anything.”

“You get pissy as hell.”

“I do _not,”_ Dean huffs.

“That does sound like Dean,” Castiel giggles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his mirth.

Dean can’t even pretend to be annoyed by Castiel taking Sam’s side, because if he has to suffer this indignity to hear Castiel _giggle…_ it’s all worth it.

\---

Stretching his arms out over his head until his hands bump into the headboard, Dean slowly rolls over, fluffy comforter tangling between his legs. He breathes deep, content to simply observe.

Perched on the windowsill is Castiel, face turned to the night sky. Ethereal silver light of the moon caresses his skin; it reflects in the blue of his eyes, and from a distance, his eyes appear to shine. He looks angelic bathed in the celestial glow, his features both broad and strong, lithe and delicate. Dressed in one of Dean’s worn t shirts, legs bare, Castiel is so beautiful it nearly hurts to lay eyes on him.

As if sensing Dean’s gaze, Castiel glances away from the window.

Dean doesn’t say a word, doesn’t hide the affection he knows is showing — clear as day — in his eyes.

Castiel smiles, slow and warm as melting chocolate. He slips off the windowsill, sauntering to the bed with feline grace.

Dean welcomes Castiel with open arms, watching him brace himself on his forearms over Dean’s head with smiling eyes. Slipping his arms around Castiel’s neck to slide a hand into unruly dark hair, Dean arches up to meet Castiel for a soft kiss.

When Castiel presses him down into the pillows, Dean’s mouth parts with a content sigh, and Castiel happily accepts the invitation. He’ll never get used to it — how gently Dean kisses, attentive and never overbearing, like he’s pressing his love into Castiel with his lips and tongue. It’s the best kind of drug, and Castiel kisses Dean for as long as he wants because he can; Castiel loves seeing Dean smiling up at him with kiss swollen lips and pink flushed cheeks, the green of his eyes jewel bright rings around his dilated pupils.

With one last peck, Castiel flops onto his side. Dean kicks the comforter over their tangled legs, and when Castiel nuzzles into his neck, Dean pulls him impossibly closer. Together, they just breathe for a nice stretch of time, chests rising and falling in tandem.

“How was it,” Dean finally murmurs into Castiel’s hair.

“Hm?”

“Dinner,” Dean says. Then, “Today.”

Castiel hums, idly tracing one of Dean’s shoulder blades through his shirt. “Wonderful. Jessica is a fine woman, and Sam is…” He pauses dramatically. “Interesting.”

“Knocked you over like a leaf in the wind,” Dean snickers, “‘n all you have to say is _interesting?”_

“He’s… tall,” Casitel tries. “...His hair is longer than I’d expected from someone related to you.”

“Yeah, I keep tellin’ him to get it cut— He never does. Dunno how he deals with that on his head all the time. Nice touch with the gift, by the way.”

Castiel smiles; Dean can feel it against his neck. “I was originally intending to hand it to you today and ask you to give it to them along with my regards.”

“Thoughtful as always,” Dean mumbles. He’s steadily losing ground in the battle against sleep, but he won’t allow it, not just yet, because even if his eyes are closed, he can feel Castiel’s troubled gaze. “Cas— What’s wrong?”

Castiel doesn’t reply.

“...You gotta tell me if I did somethin’ wrong, okay?”

Castiel shakes his head. “You didn’t,” he whispers. “I’m just…” He sighs. “I can’t— I wish I could stop thinking about how much I will miss this tomorrow.”

Dean’s quiet for so long, it’s no wonder Castiel thinks he’s asleep.

“Dean?”

“...Y’know, ‘f we’re gonna have one bed, it’s gotta be mine.”

“Are you suggesting we live together, Dean?” Castiel sounds surprised, and Dean’s far too sleepy to even begin understanding why.

“Mm, yeah? You make great coffee, I’ve an awesome bed.” Dean doesn’t know if he’s making sense anymore — his words are slurring. “C’n see you ev’ryday.”

“And you… want that?”

“‘Course.” _What else could I want,_ Dean doesn’t manage to say before he’s asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you thought a fic of mine wouldn't have sleepy cuddles? fool


	4. [timestamp #3] sweetheart, light of my life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's peak devastation time, folks

God, he’s so in love.

Castiel had been on edge recently, anxious and twitchy about something, and Dean had decided — in a moment of clarity when all his brain cells were working at maximum capacity — to spend a day together doing things Castiel liked.

The plan for  _ Make Cas Happy _ (he’s not the best at titles, alright? Besides, the content is more important here): let him sleep in until noon, take him out for lunch, grab some good coffee before strolling through the park on the way to the massive old library, let Cas read until the sun starts to set, then climb up to the lookout thing that overlooks the town for a nice view.

They’re wandering through the park, holding empty coffee cups as they search for the nearest garbage can. Castiel seems to have finally forgotten about whatever had been bothering him, happily informing Dean of all the important things he wants to read about and Dean isn’t hearing a single word.

The little box in Dean’s jacket pocket feels like an explosive. He keeps a hand around it, as if clutching the thing would be enough to hold back a detonation.

Castiel — mesmerizing, ignorant Castiel — raises his hand to point out a trash bin in the distance. Sparse flakes of snow drifting down from the gray sky settles in his hair and eyelashes, glittering specks of light in the weak winter sunshine as they melt. His cheeks are flushed a soft pink, warm breath a cloud floating upward from his face.

“Dean, are you listening? Dean!”

Startled, Dean blinks. “Uh, yeah— Yeah, I’m listening.”

“No, you weren’t,” Castiel accuses.

Busted.

When he catches sight of Dean’s expression, Castiel laughs, tossing his head back so far it upsets his balance. He stumbles and Dean instinctively takes a step to the side, standing firm so Castiel bumps into his shoulder instead of falling. Not that Castiel would ever fall from something so trivial, the man has the stability of cats that always land on their feet.

Sure enough, Castiel only lightly nudges Dean before he straightens, grinning so wide his eyes are nearly squinted shut. “You don’t,” he gasps, still laughing, “you don’t have to make that face.”

_ Marry me. _

“Hm?” Castiel’s laughter subsides to a radiant smile. “What’d you say?”

He’d been planning to wait and see how the day goes. The downfall of living together is being unable to hide  _ anything _ and Dean had been carrying the box around with him everywhere, because if he didn’t keep it on himself, Castiel would surely find it.

Agonizing weeks of time that just wasn’t  _ right, _ and Dean’s been feeling squirrely as hell. He hopes he’s been hiding it well enough to pass as  _ not suspicious enough to investigate, just a little weird, _ but the damn thing’s been burning holes in his brain with how often he’s thinking about it.

And sue him, he’s a bit of a sap, planning to ask with the town below them and the sun setting around them. He wants it to be a good memory, you know?

But  _ God, _ Castiel looks so happy and carefree and everything in Dean has been screaming incessantly in response. Greedy as it is, Dean wants to claim that smile for himself, wants to let the whole world know how blessed he is to be able to call it  _ mine. _

“Fuck it,” Dean mutters under his breath.

Castiel’s smile dims, replaced by growing confusion.

Dean looks Castiel straight in the eye, not breaking eye contact as he folds a leg behind himself and sinks down onto one knee.

_ “Dean,” _ Castiel gasps.

Smiling, Dean — finally — takes out the small box he’d been smuggling from pocket to pocket for what feels like forever, lifting the lid to reveal a thick silver band. He pauses for a breath, watching Castiel blink furiously against his tears.

“Cas… sweetheart, angel, light of my life— Will you marry me?”

To Dean’s utter bewilderment, Castiel hunches over, giggling helplessly.

Snow melting slowly beneath his knee leaves it numb, and Dean silently stares at Castiel for a long minute, stunned. “What—”

Castiel suddenly stands upright, expression serious as he digs a hand into his jacket pocket.

Dean feels like he’s getting whiplash trying to keep up. Even that might be a bit of a stretch, because he’s totally lost. “Cas?”

Brows creased in concentration, Castiel wrestles impatiently with the pocket. Then he’s holding out his hand; sitting in his palm is a black box almost identical to Dean’s. Even the ring nestled in the velvet bears a resemblance, and doesn’t that say a lot about how similarly they think?

“Only if you’ll marry me, too."

Everything stops. Even the air seems to be holding its breath. Time, kinder than everyone makes it to be, pauses for them.

They must make quite the pair; a tableau of probably the strangest idiots proposing to each other at the same time in the middle of a park. Damp eyes glistening, they’re caught in their own world, unaware of their surroundings.

Then, as one, they move — Dean rising to his feet and Castiel stumbling forward — to fall into each other’s arms, clutching desperately at shoulders and backs like they’ll never let go again.

Castiel nudges Dean back until he can look at his face, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Of course I’ll marry you, Dean—  _ Yes.” _

Dean laughs, breathless. His cheeks hurt from smiling, and he feels like he might just burst with happiness. “You don’t gotta ask, Cas— The answer’ll always be  _ yes.” _

Castiel grabs the back of Dean’s neck, his touch urgent but gentle — always so gentle — as he pulls Dean forward. It’s a messy clash of lips and teeth when they collide, briefly clumsy in their haste; their noses brush as they correct the angle, instinct guiding their movements until they  _ fit, _ puzzle pieces slotting back together. He lifts himself up on the balls of his feet, Dean’s arm slides down his back to support his waist, and—

Applause breaks out around them, loud in the open space. Reluctantly, they separate to turn wide eyes on the audience they had never noticed gaining: a gangly teenager walking his dog, a couple strolling arm in arm, an old woman with a bag of groceries, a family of four taking a walk, a woman holding her excited dog in her arms.

Dean flushes a deep red, ducking his head to press his face into Castiel’s shoulder with a small squeak.

Congratulations and well wishes are called from various distances by various people, dogs barking along to the chaos of noise.

“Thank you,” Castiel yells back, laughing and waving a hand in the air.

Dean continues halfheartedly attempting to smother himself with Castiel’s jacket.

“Dean.”

He lets Castiel step back and take his left hand. Watches as Castiel’s warm hands straighten his fingers with something akin to reverence, watches as Castiel slowly slides the silver band onto his ring finger. It’s the right kind of snug and glints prettily in the light and Dean is never going to take it off.

Castiel can’t seem to take his eyes off the ring sitting on Dean’s finger — the one he put there himself mere seconds ago — and Dean can’t hold back his fond smile as he brings his other hand up to cradle Castiel’s left in both of his own. Dean goes even slower than Castiel had, hypnotized by the sight of the ring inching up Castiel’s finger towards its home. His heart skips when it catches slightly on Castiel’s knuckle, but then Castiel’s straightening his finger just a bit more and it’s smooth sailing again.

Dean caves easily to the unexplainable urge, leaning in to press his lips to Castiel’s forehead. Castiel beams bright as summer sunshine, and reaches up to drag a thumb through the wet tracks on Dean’s cheeks.

“You’re beautiful when you cry,” Castiel murmurs, at once an observation and a revelation.

Right, it’s the first time Castiel’s ever seen him cry. When was the last time he’d shed any tears for something? Dean can’t even remember.

What do you even say to something like that, anyway? It’s like someone wishing you a happy birthday;  _ thanks, I guess? _

He’s never really figured out what to say in response to compliments — is telling someone they cry beautifully even a compliment — so Dean doesn’t say a thing, turning his head to press a sappy little kiss to Castiel’s palm.

_ God, he’s so in love. _

\---

Dean can’t stop staring at it. He wants to show every single person in the world, shout  _ I’m married to Castiel Novak! _ at the top of his lungs until even the stars know their story.

Castiel tips his head back onto Dean’s chest to look up at him. “I nearly forgot you could get rings engraved,” he says, nonchalant, flipping the page of his book.

“Wait—” Dean sits up a little to relieve the ache making itself known at his lower back, reflexively squeezing his thighs around Castiel’s hips as he moves. “Did you, too—”

“Mm.” Castiel shifts backward to fill the space Dean had vacated, happily settling himself between Dean’s legs as he reads. “Too?”

Dean wiggles his ring off, holding it up to his eyes in the warm glow of their lamp. He slowly rotates until he sees the delicate symbol etched into the inside; it’s a beautifully complex thing, comprised of what looks to be four quadrants of a looping design, all connected together. And he recognizes the pattern, it’s—

“A Celtic knot,” Dean murmurs.

“Shield knot,” Castiel says, “for protection.” Then Dean’s words seem to register, and he twists around. “You know what it is?”

Of course he knows what it is. There’s no way he wouldn’t know what it is, because there’s one engraved into the ring on Castiel’s finger.

Dean slips his ring back on. “Yeah.” He glances meaningfully at Castiel’s, tipping his chin towards it when Castiel raises an eyebrow.

Castiel reaches for his ring and Dean purposefully glances away. He already knows what Castiel will find.

“Oh,” Castiel breathes, soft but sharp like it’d been punched out of him.

“Trinity knot,” Dean says to the ceiling. “Can mean a lotta things that come in three—” He pauses, takes a deep breath. His voice is quieter when he continues. “I like to think it represents the past, present, and future. Tied together. Y’know, like infinity. Forever.”

When Dean finally stops trying to spot a blemish on the blank white of the ceiling, Castiel’s looking at him like he’s only seeing him for the first time.

Dean coughs. “Yeah, I know I’m bein’ a sap—”

“I  _ love _ you.”

Dean’s words die in his throat.

Castiel rolls over in place, lying down between Dean’s legs with their chests pressed together. He holds Dean’s face in his hands — Dean can feel the smooth surface of his ring pressed against his cheek — and kisses him like an ocean wave meeting the shore, crashing in with fervor and receding with a tender caress.

When Castiel pulls back, taking all of Dean’s breath with him, he sinks his teeth into Dean’s bottom lip. Dean’s gasp for air melts into a low breathless moan; Castiel simultaneously wants to hear that sound forever and feel it against his lips as he swallows it.

It’s alright, because he has plenty of time to figure out which one he likes most.

For now, Castiel rests his forehead against Dean’s, their noses brushing and exhales mingling in the tiny space between their faces.

Dean’s breathing is still rough, but his voice is steady.

“I love you, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the person who engraved the rings for them: oh my god, they're absolute idiots... if I hadn't postponed the pickup for one of them, they really would've walked in at the same time
> 
> I thought of a triskelion at first and now I have so much random knowledge of Celtic knots... lol
> 
> Whew I'm so used to doing all my world building + plot together in >2k words, but this was so much fun to write! (wait is this my first multichaptered wip over 5k that I've actually finished... oop) Thank you to everyone who followed along on this journey :))


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